Recovery, 1946
by scottthedisaster
Summary: Recovery is the best kind of pain. It fills you with hope while it stomps on your heart and crushes your mind. A look into the nations' post-war lives. Updates every two weeks or so, different POV(s) each time. Reviews are, as always, very welcome (also sorry but I often go back and edit chapters I've posted which is unprofessional to the max)
1. Chapter 1

Twelve are dead. Göring, Ribbentrop, Rosenberg, Frank, Kaltenbrunner, Keitel, Frick, Streicher, Jodl, Bormann, Seyss-Inquart, and Sauckel. The other twelve, sentenced to lengthy prison sentences.

They are gone, but Germany— _West_ Germany— still feels keenly the effects of the atrocities they sanctioned and committed. He sees it in his people, slowly recovering from the loss of their homes and families and livelihoods. He sees it in the other nations, in their haunted eyes and splintered minds and agonizing wounds.

He sees it in his brother, who can no longer see anything.

"I _can_ see some things, Ludwig. Shadows and stuff. It's not entirely gone," East Germany protested.

They'd been separated since the Potsdam Conference, back in 1945. East was taken into the custody of the Soviet Union, while West was supervised by the western powers. They were reunited for a brief time, here in Nuremberg, to witness the verdict of the war crime trials. Their own verdict was tame, in the eyes of a human: the preexisting division, enforced geographically by a wall partitioning the land. But to them— they, who had seldom been apart for more than a couple of days— it was the ultimate torture.

There was a small garden behind the courthouse, with a single wooden bench hidden from view by a pair of lofty elms. It was October, and the trees were orange and balding. After the verdict was announced, Ludwig had retreated there, to evade the hard stares that made his bruises throb and the shock of auburn hair in row three. Though it evidently hadn't deterred Gilbert.

"Is that so? Then I trust you found me on your own."

East ran his hands through his snow-bright hair. Actually, at the moment it looked more like snow that had been trodden on a couple times. To add to his state of dishevelment, his milky red eyes had bluish shadows beneath them, and his lips were chapped and bleeding. Out of military dress, his body appeared far more brittle than West remembered. Ludwig didn't think his brother was being mistreated by his new... housemates (at least, no more than the rest of those in the so-called Eastern Bloc were), but house arrest was _not_ a good look on him. "Er..."

Ludwig sighed pensively. He knew that East's condition had been an inevitability for decades now, his glasses never lasting a couple months before becoming too weak. But the war, Gilbert's forced conscription by Hitler— _that_ had caused the head trauma, the stress that killed his eyesight.

If Adolf Hitler hadn't already killed himself last year, Ludwig would gladly have done it.

"Lis walked me to the tree, and I walked myself to you." East stated this proudly, his point accented by the sight of Hungary waving at them both from where Gilbert had left them, knee-deep in fallen leaves. Lis was nothing if not supportive.

"That's very comforting."

"Well fuck you too, Lud," East remarked drily. He brandished his cane indignantly. "The best thing to come out of this is that I have a permanent pity party. I didn't even need to invite people over! And I've got enough flowers to build a fucking parade float."

His tone was buoyant but his smile was feral. Ludwig gazed at him sadly.

"And, of course, you've joined in. Stop giving me that look, I know you're doing it," he snapped.

East was a caged animal— no longer able to go anywhere alone, or do any of his erstwhile hobbies, he was instead told to sit on his ass until he could no longer feel it.

"The only person I can stand now is _Austria_ , of all people. And that's only because he hates me."

"He _loves_ —"

"He hates me, West. Just let me believe that," Gilbert concluded loudly. His relationship with Austria was too conflicted to think about. He didn't pity East, and that was as good as being his best friend as long as he was concerned.

Ludwig wondered when his brother got so desperate.

"Light me a cig," his brother said, retrieving one from his pocket. West scowled. "I don't think those are healthy."

"Who cares? I'm dying anyway," Gil shrugged. But despite his nonchalance, the hand that held out the cigarette shook.

"Please don't say that. _Please_." West's voice was strained.

Gilbert said nothing. Ludwig reluctantly lit his smoke for him anyway, choking on the accidentally inhaled smoke. He handed it to his brother, who shook his head. "It's for you."

Ludwig stared at him for a second in disbelief before putting the cigarette back to his lips. Maybe it was his imagination, but for a second, his wounds didn't seem to ache so much. Probably his imagination— he didn't put much stock in the healing properties of tobacco.

"How have you been handling everything?" Gilbert's tone was gentler now, but not quite dissolving the tension between them.

Before the wars, Ludwig had hated when Gilbert felt he needed to take care of him— he was self-sufficient, and had been for decades.

Yet now, Ludwig desperately wanted his elder brother back, to tell him stories and to play pranks and to kiss his cuts and bruises better. To tell him everything would be alright. Of course, nothing was remotely alright now.

"I'm not handling it," he answered. He held onto his frail composure for dear life.

No one talked to him. France avoided him like the plague, only observing him from a distance. _If_ _looks could kill._ It was warranted, of course— his mind had nearly been torn in two by the occupation in 1940. France's mental scars far outnumbered the physical ones. England hadn't been quite as resentful, but Germany had still begun the Blitz on London before England had done the same to Köln. Certainly, more damage had been done to the latter. If he had to guess which of England's abrasions were the result of London, he'd have to say the one underneath the bandaging on his collarbone, from which crept a sickly reddish-brown bruise. The only reason the two of them hadn't talked alone yet was because West couldn't bear to look at it.

There were the Benelux, the Nordics, constituents of the USSR. Hell, even America. The congregation accused him with their eyes, punished him with their silences.

And then there was Italy.

Today, Veneziano and Romano had entered the courtroom with gaunt faces, meeting no one person's eyes for more than a second before darting to the ground. They were quiet, strangely. Stranger still, they were _concordant_. Misery had bound them together— they leaned heavily on each other not only physically, but emotionally. On any other occasion, West would have been proud.

On this occasion, North and South Italy looked upon him with identically hollow gazes.

September 1943 marked the Armistice of Cassibile. Veneziano and Romano had suddenly surrendered to the Allies, exhausted on all fronts.

He'd had the peninsula occupied within the month.

"Feliciano was being smart— their government was in tatters, they couldn't handle the war. And what did I do? Invade," West said hoarsely. The only immediate defense Italy had had against him was the partisan effort.

 _I deserve to suffer so much more than this._

Gil unskillfully pulled his little brother into a one-armed embrace as his shoulders began to shake with dry sobs. As a child, Ludwig hadn't cried much, and thus Gilbert was ill-prepared to comfort him. Nevertheless, they clung to one another like life preservers as six years of guilt and despair washed over them.

The younger, wracked with noiseless, tearless weeping; his heart was far too new and tender for this.

The elder, his face stoic and his mind screaming; his heart was far too old and scarred for this.

The two of them endured. Perhaps they'd never recover. Perhaps they'd never be truly forgiven. But they'd try their hardest to regain normalcy, even if it killed them.

"Ahem."

The brothers jumped out of their seats. Russia stood on the edge of the lawn, trying not to look at them as some semblance of privacy. Lis stood beside him, mouthing their apology at the two of them.

"It's, ah, time to go," Russia stated awkwardly. He might have been the lead country of the USSR, but he wasn't happy about it. He probably wanted to go back even less than Gilbert.

This still didn't make the two friends. " _Scheiße_ ," Gil whispered, and then drawled, "I'm coming, Ivan." He drew Russia's name out as "ee-vaaahn." Lis grimaced at him and looked nervously at Russia for any sign of reaction. He scowled, but evidently wasn't in the mood to shatter East's face.

East turned back to West and hugged him tightly. "Be good, alright? We'll see each other soon." Gilbert's voice shook.

"What about you? Promise me that you'll take care of yourself. I don't know..." _How much time you_ _have left._ They both knew the end of the sentence.

"I'll be alright as long as you are."

And then he was gone, looking back only briefly to offer the ghost of a smile.

"Goodbye, _Preußen_ ," he whispered.

When he looked down, he noticed with detachment that the cigarette had turned to ash, scalding his fingers.

Getting to Moscow was a massive fucking ordeal. The three of them— East Germany, Hungary, and Russia— were walking to a car, which would take them to the train station, which would take them to the Moscow station, from which they'd need to take yet another car. East really didn't know how he was going to survive the ride without going mad somewhere between here and Poland.

"I trust you had a good time today?"

Especially with this shitstain.

The itch to punch Russia in the face acted up again, nearly overpowering his rational thoughts. Fortunately, East had his cane in one hand, and Lis' hand in the other. This left approximately no hands with which to punch. His mouth, however, was unmuzzled, and thus perfectly capable of doing the job.

"I saw my little brother cry for the first time. We were together for only half an hour. Sure, I had a good time."

Lis squeezed his hand, and he couldn't tell whether it was sympathy or a warning to stand down.

"Oh dear. Maybe we shouldn't have let you see him. It would hurt less." Ivan's tone was soft, but Gilbert felt as if every word was intended to mock his pain, to diminish the weight of the ordeals he suffered. He stopped walking.

"I am _dying_ because you sadistic fucks took me away from him. Today hurt, but every day that I'm in Moscow, a little piece of me dies. Soon there will be nothing left to give back to my brother at the funeral," Gilbert sneered. As soon as he said this, Russia had him up in the air, hands around his windpipe. Lis screamed in horror. Normally, they would have never stayed idle; but Lis knew the drill. No interference.

He had absolutely no doubt Ivan's purplish eyes were boring into him with all the ferocity of an enraged bear.

"Do not ever call me sadistic," Ivan intoned. His booming voice had lowered, if possible, a couple of octaves. Gil's fingers scrabbled at his neck, uselessly trying to pry his adversary's fingers away.

" _Do you understand_?"

East wheezed something unintelligible, which Ivan took for agreement. He released him abruptly, dumping him unceremoniously on the ground, and continued walking. Hungary rushed over, helping Gilbert to his feet as he massaged his neck. "I am so, so sorry."

"S' not your fault," he managed hoarsely. Once again, he had lost control of his temper— it seemed to happen more easily these days. Was it a loss of inhibition, or were his emotions perpetually on the brink of surpassing his threshold?

Neither. Gil was provoking Ivan. Vicious jabs at old wounds, for vicious old enemies. Eventually, Russia would tire of being prodded at and subject him to a slow and agonizing death. He was trying to avoid that, for Ludwig's sake. But the risk, the adrenaline rush— that was what East sought. It distracted him from his shame, his self-condemnation that weighed him down like a lead coat. It distracted him from the looming prospect of the Berlin Wall, and from the injuries Ludwig still harbored. If acts of extreme stupidity were the only way he could escape, so be it.

Attempting to regain his ability to breathe, and to hide his triumphant smirk, East stood there quietly, while Lis' arms wrapped around him. They were breathing too shakily, embracing too tightly, as if it was them that had just been choked within an inch of their life. Lis probably had, sometime in the past couple of years. But they had agreed to silence. He regretted his actions only in this respect, for all the pain it caused Lis. The hug was just as much for East's sake as their own, he speculated.

Hungary was... different, in a way.

Prisoners of war were sent to labor camps, if they hadn't already been executed by the NKVD. They were unspeakably cruel, whipping the men raw for the smallest of offenses. Starvation was the norm. If there was extra food, they'd beat one another to a pulp for it while the guards watched. After their stint in the camp, Lis was quieter, colder, more volatile. They looked at everyone with suspicion, stalking through the house restlessly.

And not even the emaciation from lack of food could hide the fact that Hungary's body was not male. They never said a word, but Gil read their actions— a flinch at someone's voice, a sudden intake of breath. It hurt the most when Lis recoiled at his touch, still trapped in another reality. Lis suffered a sort of terror that went bone-deep.

"May I?"

A nod. He put a hesitant hand to their face, trying to remember Lis' features. Eyes the color of spring, silvery scars on their cheeks, chestnut hair shorn short on the back. Even though he had made sure to commit to memory the faces of his loved ones before he lost his sight, details inevitably drifted away. Maybe one day he would only remember Lis' face in the ridges and curves he felt under his fingers. They kissed, gently, tears he hadn't known he was shedding mixing with theirs.

They broke apart and hurried after Russia, once again hand-in-hand.

 **A/N: point out historical inaccuracies in the reviews please! Feedback is my lifeblood.**

 **Lis is short for Elisaveta, as Hungary's agender in my interpretation.**

 **Also yeah I know the Eastern Bloc wasn't really a thing til '55 but there were a lot of behind-the-scenes negotiations**


	2. Chapter 2

God, how Ivan hated his life.

Hours had felt like weeks to him on the train, staring out the window at a mixture of wrecked cityscape and wasteland. His travel companions weren't a great deal of help, seeing as they had resolved to do nothing but keep their eyes trained stonily on him through the entire trip. Or rather, Hungary. East Germany was facing somewhere to his left, where he thought Russia was. It would have been painfully funny, if their expressions hadn't been justifiably murderous. Now it was just painful.

It didn't help that they were passing what was left of the eastern front. Ivan glanced at his charges, who'd realized the same thing. Hungary had slung an arm around East Germany's bony shoulders, as he had begun to shiver slightly despite the relative warmth of the train car. He was probably sick.

Russia resumed his study of the bleak landscape.

It wasn't as if he could do anything to help. It'd been him that they'd been fighting on those fields, with bullets skimming dangerously close to their faces as their people fell around them. They had taken great pains to avoid one another, yet they had faced the barrels of each others' guns too many times to count.

East Germany had taken a bullet to the shoulder in '41, Ivan recalled— somewhere near Kiev. He'd gotten back up to receive a couple more two years later, sometime after Ivan had glimpsed him at Prochorovka. It was early 1945 when he lost his vision.

Hungary, on the other hand, had cut their hair and donned mens' clothing to join the Hungarian Second Army. Russia had seen them captured personally in Stalingrad, '42.

The labor camps they sent war prisoners to, they were hellishly inhumane. The captives were starved, beaten, and worked to the point of collapse; one torture after the other they were stripped of their humanity. Some abandoned speech, others lashed out with hands like claws.

He'd met a guard once, who had called them animals. A cold observation, but Ivan realized now exactly how accurate the man was.

Hungary had been repatriated briefly this year, only to be handed back to Ivan (kicking and screaming). Now, they sat not five feet in front of Ivan, feral green eyes half-hidden by unruly brown hair (untended since the buzz cut given to them at the beginning of their enlistment) and shadowed by an indescribable exhaustion. 'Sat' wasn't even an apt term- Elisaveta was sprawling across the seat, not unlike a wolf on the lookout. Resting, yet still tense.

In their testimony, Elisaveta had refused to talk about their time in the camp— but the silence (which had included five minutes of intense, accusatory eye contact with Ivan) had spoken for itself.

"Look, why don't you get some sleep. It's a long way yet to Moscow." Ivan made the effort of sounding amiable.

"Do not talk to us," Hungary replied, voice harsh and guttural. Maybe, as their superior, he shouldn't have let that go. But he did.

The rest of the trip passed without a word.

The constituents of the USSR lived in an unassuming house on Petrovka street, for the General Secretary's convenience as well as to keep them from becoming too independent. Waiting upon their homecoming was the entire population of the house congregated in the foyer, assembled by his sisters. Belarus and Ukraine probably meant for them to welcome him in unison, but the greeting fell short and dissolved into a low murmur of vaguely hospitable noises. Fed up, Natalya dismissed them and spoke to Ivan herself.

"Welcome back, Ivan. Was your trip okay?" Out of the corner of his eye he spied Hungary and East Germany being whisked away by Poland, despondent in patchy trousers.

"Yeah. Any news?"

"The Secretary requests you visit him this evening for a report on the trials. Other than that, nothing." This Yekaterina stated. She, more than most of the constituents, was aware of the consequences of forgetfulness in the face of authority. She made a concerted effort to track appointments diligently.

Of course, there was one she didn't know about. In a dingy, small bar on the outskirts of the city, he was to meet China this afternoon. Conferring with China wasn't unusual, due to the last year's alliance. But Yao had wanted this one to remain clandestine, for reasons unknown. Ivan would have to leave soon to make it on time to meet both him and Stalin.

"Raivis!"

The small boy scampered over as if he hadn't been cowering in the kitchen for the past five minutes. "Y-yes, sir?" Ivan scowled. If Latvia couldn't handle two seconds in the room with him, how was he going to survive Stalin?

"Get East Germany something for his fever. If he dies of a cold, it's on your head," he commanded. He'd have to ask for actual medicine when he went to the Secretary. No matter how annoying East Germany was, letting him die wasn't part of the treaty.

Latvia practically shook. Ivan would have liked to do something about it, but his days of smiling were long gone. The Soviet Union, as he was now, was callous, cold, and merciless–– a Russian winter. Raivis would have to deal with it.

"Affirmative, s-sir."

"Dismissed," Ivan told him, turning to his sisters. "I'm going out. Watch the house."

"Where?" Natalya felt the need to know exactly where he was at any point in time. Irritating, but well-meant.

"The bar. I need to be more than slightly intoxicated before talking about the trials."

Not entirely a lie. At this point, only alcohol was capable of washing away his inhibitions.

As he entered the pub, Ivan began to regret his choice in establishment. Not only was it sparsely populated (which meant they'd be easy to eavesdrop on), but the few who were there looked unsavory at best. At least they paid him no mind, lending their attention to more pressing matters, namely their beers.

China was seated at a table near the back, swilling his drink and looking completely conspicuous despite his attempts at appearing normal. Ivan made a beeline towards him, taking a chair across from Yao without bothering with pleasantries.

"How rude," China remarked without conviction. Ivan noted that his companion looked rather worse for the wear. He was all sunken eyes and hollow cheekbones, his hair choppy and unwashed. His face reminded Ivan of when Yao had first emerged from the Japanese war camps. "Have you become a POW again? Funny, I thought the war ended last year..."

Yao glared for a moment before swigging the drink in front of him, squinting angrily at the tankard after swallowing. He looked as if he was bracing for something. "Do you know what's worse than being taken prisoner? This one should be easy for you. You only just did it, what, thirty years ago?" China's voice was low and fierce.

Meeting each other blow for blow, this was how they talked. To anybody else, bringing up such sensitive topics would seem cruel. To them, it was refreshing. When you were this old, you needed reminders of your fragility.

"You're changing government."

China laughed hollowly. "Right in one. It hasn't happened yet, but I can certainly feel it. The parties are getting restless."

Government change was draining, both on physical and mental faculties, which would explain why China looked like shit warmed over. It was necessary sometimes, but that didn't make it any less unpleasant.

"I can relate, but how do I fit into this picture? You couldn't have come this far north to cry into a glass of shitty booze. You can do that anywhere. Perhaps not with such attractive and charming company, but still."

Yao's dark eyes sought his, flinty and intense. "When my leadership changes, it wil not change easily. I will need assistance in the rebound. My closest neighbors are either incapacitated or... otherwise undesirable as personal allies."

Personal allies. This wasn't political— they were already in an alliance.

"You want to be... friends," Ivan sounded out.

"In short, yes. I need someone who will sew my head back on after I declare myself to the new regime- they always have to execute me at least once before they accept it." Ivan's eyes drifted towards Yao's neck, which was ringed with white scars that evidenced his words.

"Anyway," China continued, "you will help me regain my footing, and I will do the same for you in future."

"And if I don't agree?"

"Then we both walk out as we came in. I will be ill-prepared to deal with the massive social changes arising from the advent of the communist regime, which will affect you very little, if at all." China kept his composure through his words, as if he wasn't relying solely on Ivan's generosity and compassion.

Speaking of, why did Yao think he had any? Either he was stupid beyond measure or truly desperate. Since you didn't reach four thousand years old out of stupidity, Ivan assumed the latter. It was admirable, how he'd follow through with the most futile of pursuits.

Perhaps that's why he'd agreed.

Yao's eyes widened in shock. Obviously he hadn't expected to achieve anything tonight. He didn't speak.

"Take your time, I guess."

"I... thank you," he managed after a couple of seconds, dipping his head.

Ivan studied the man across the table, sizing him up. Slight in physique, but incredibly resilient. He had the knowledge and wisdom of countless centuries. Not a bad person to have on your side, on the whole.

"To friendship." Yao took a long draft from the glass and passed it to Ivan.

"To friendship."

Their relationship was forged in strategy and watered down alcohol.

"How was Nuremberg?" He was in Stalin's office, hovering awkwardly by the door. The Secretary was at his desk, and was content to leave him standing.

"Uneventful, for the most part. Germany is officially split, Western Europe is happy to leave it that way for the next couple of decades, and Hungary and East Germany are back in Moscow." Ivan kept his voice on an even keel. The less he seemed to care, the less fault would be found with him.

"In what state are the nations in?" Stalin didn't look up.

"Disrepair, all around. They harbor resentment, understandably, towards West Germany. America, even, was affected." America did not feel the effects of European war quite so keenly, allowing him to remain insufferably cheerful and detached. But his investment in this conflict was higher. He felt something, at least.

"Speaking of–– you've heard the rumors of the US's plan to distribute funds to recovering countries?"

Ivan froze. "You cannot be serious."

Ambitious? Yes. Meddling? Of course. Generous? Far from it. What made him start giving alms to the poor?

"With their benevolence, they plan to spread democracy and hold communism at bay. As naive as it seems, it will likely be effective. We must work to combat it. Keep a tighter leash on your people, and we'll reconvene in two days."

Without another word, Ivan knew his audience was intended to be over. But that didn't stop him. "Sir."

Stalin finally lifted his gaze. "What," he enunciated coldly, "Could possibly be so urgent?"

Ivan nearly shrank back, then thought better of it. Hesitation would not get him what he needed.

"We require a doctor at Petrovka Street. I suspect East Germany has pneumonia."

Stalin looked at him with flat eyes. "Do you not have sufficient supplies to break his fever? Don't nations heal quickly? Yes, you do. A doctor isn't necessary. Go back to the house and refrain from bothering me with irrelevant issues."

Stalin's eyes challenged him to defy the order.

"As you wish."

Outside, Ivan cursed himself for his weakness. The entire house needed the doctor, not just East Germany. They depended on him for reprieve and aid from Stalin, and he failed. He couldn't even manage to hold his attention for ten minutes. "FUCK," he roared, punching the wall of a building. He shook out his wrist without really feeling the pain.

He took off towards Petrovka Street as he usually did from these meetings–– with rage clouding his vision and blood dripping from his split knuckles.


End file.
